


Turn-Around

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Hobbits, M/M, Male Protagonist, POV Male Character, POV Minor Character, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-04
Updated: 2008-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Extra warning: <i>Really</i> not the sort of a fluffy hobbit fic I usually write.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Turn-Around

**Author's Note:**

> Extra warning: _Really_ not the sort of a fluffy hobbit fic I usually write.

The squeak, the thump, repeated, and Pippin's arms were bruised by now, he was sure, but he wasn't thinking about that yet. Afterwards he always thought the weight was the best part, the crushing strength of Lotho, what you wouldn't expect, what not a lot of people know. He hoped a lot of people didn't know it.

He was doing him a favour, he thought, Lotho wasn't popular. They didn't understand, they wouldn't appreciate this, the others, other lads, or lasses, Pippin was never sure if Lotho liked lasses at all, Pippin sometimes looked at people and wondered about that sort of thing - which does he like, what would she prefer.

Oversexed he'd been called, others said it was just that he's still young, he doesn't know what the truth is, but he knew what he liked, and right now it was Lotho fucking him raw on his bed, in the middle of the day. He could hear birdsong through the walls, footsteps above; this was a real hill dwelling, such a small one, but a real one, Lotho's own, and it was full of his smell and his things, dull and sweaty and sharp.

So hard. His head hit the wall, ached, and then the ache was lost, for there were so many things to feel. He came all over Lotho's shirt front. The hobbit hadn't even taken it off. Underneath, Pippin knew, were birthmarks, five of them like a hand print, spread out over his abdomen, bald spots among the light hair on his chest and belly.

He smelled like he needed a bath. Pippin came, and there was something in that white overwhelming pleasure that reeked of victory, accomplishment, use.

They used to call Lotho such names, and here he was now and this was just for Pippin, he's just for Pippin, a secret.

Lotho eased down, slowing down, stopping. He hadn't come.

'What?' Pippin asked, confused.

There was something behind Lotho's eyes. What had he said just before they got in the bed? Little tart. At the moment it had only made Pippin harder. He said it again now, and it didn't feel as nicely naughty as it had before.

Lotho put his hand on Pippin, encircling the scrotum, pinching a little. Pippin winced with the pain. 'Stop that.'

'You didn't want me to stop before.'

'You weren't hurting me before!' He struggled to sit up now, to get out from under that weight, but Lotho would have none of it.

The crushing strength of Lotho.

Pippin's ankle was lifted up and pushed down harshly, until the strain hurt, and Lotho leaned down to kiss him. Pippin wrenched his face away, and Lotho bit his cheek, hard, drawing blood. He cried out, struggled, wiggled, punched Lotho until his hands were pushed up and the weight concentrated, he couldn't breathe, and Lotho was fucking him again.

An image flitted through his mind - two dogs in an street corner. He'd always thought them so ungraceful. Once he'd seen them across a moonlit scene with the scent of midsummer all around and a lass on his arm. They'd both seen them, and parted quietly, all thoughts of sweet nothings banished by that artless rutting, the magic turned to animal mundanity.

'Let me... breathe,' he managed. Lotho was mumbling, and as his pace picked up, so did the volume.

"Whoreson" was the first word he made out. "Maggoty, filthy Took." Worse things.

At the point where the insults turned into groans, Lotho sat up and smacked Pippin, once, twice. He could now feel the blood flowing down on each side of his face, wet and warm like tears, and his head buzzed, he gasped and thought crazily about sprains.

Lotho came, groaning loud satisfaction.

'I could kill you,' he murmured in his afterglow, heavy body draped over Pippin's exhausted frame. 'I'd like to.' And Pippin knew it was true.

'Maybe I will next time.'

\---

Pippin made his way to the Water a little unsteadily. It was early in the spring and the water ran cold, full of ice melted at some distant origin, but Pippin stood in it up to his waist, feeling his parts shrivel and die in the cold, washing away the sweat and the cum and the sharp filthy taste of Lotho.

In a little while, he'd go to his cousin's smial like he'd planned to all along. There'd be a table set with every delicacy a country kitchen and a talented cook could produce; there'd be wine and song and laughter, and hot water and nice clean sheets, and maybe Merry would get there before the evening, so there'd even be someone to press up against, someone just as clean and warm as the fresh sheets, and tired from the long ride, so there'd be a kiss at most and then sleep, just blessed sleep, and in his mind Pippin rehearsed the smile he would smile upon seeing them, and the jokes he would tell, and the songs he would sing, and the shoulder he'd turn upon advances.

He stood in the icy water, grinning into the empty air.

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of thinking about bully/victim relationships, that lingering loathing on the part of the victim and the cheerful forgetfulness of the bully; about how the Pippin-Merry-Frodo trio's remembered behaviour towards Lotho sounded a lot like bullying, and how consensual sex can turn into rape (in which case it's known as "bad sex", though it kind of is rape).


End file.
